A Perverted Path to Victory

Hurlish of Tulian

--------------------------------------------

It was nice to have a pair of wives. Nicer still when they were actually around, cuddled together on a big, fluffy bed, instead of being scattered to gods-knew-where, probably fighting for their lives. The fact that her pair of wives were sexy as hell, sharp as knives, and loyal to a fault? That was just the damn cherry on top.

Hurlish was laying on a pile of pillows, reclined slightly to watch the illusory screen Sara had summoned up for them to watch. Sara herself had wiggled her butt up to press against Hurlish’s crotch, rested her torso across her stomach, head coming to lie between her breasts. Evie was curled up like a cat off Hurlish’s thigh, her cheek resting in Sara’s lap, tail unconsciously reaching out to loop possessively around Hurlish’s wrist. Hurlish was slowly petting it with her thumb. Not enough to turn Evie on, but enough to get her a touch more relaxed. It took a lot of damn work to get her wives to chill out, which is why Hurlish had made sure she’d got damned good at doing it.

The movie Sara had thrown up for the evening was, at Evie’s insistence, The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly. Hurlish had seen it before. Four times, in fact. This was the fifth, and each time they’d watched it had been at Evie’s insistence. Girl loved the damn thing. The first time they’d watched it, Evie had demanded Sara start it over again before the credits had even started to roll. The movie was the reason why Hurlish’s first attempt at forging a revolver had followed the design it did. She’d recreated Blondie’s gun at Evie’s insistence, the one David later told them was called an 1851 Navy Colt. It was only a short-cylindered .36 caliber pistol, puny next to what Hurlish wanted to build, but Evie had been insistent. She had wanted Blondie’s gun, and she wouldn’t take no for an answer.

Of course, just like Hurlish had warned her, it ended up too weak for getting through armor. That was why they’d pawned it off on Ignite, who’d mostly be dealing with sailors and marines, not enchanted Knights. The next revolver Hurlish had made, a Colt Walker, was from a different movie, but it was still carried by the same actor. Eastwood, or whatever the dude’s name was. Sara indulged Evie’s obsession with the dude despite the fact that she didn’t really like him (something to do with his version of her home’s politics), and she definitely didn’t like the movie that had caused Evie to latch onto the gun design. The Outlaw Josey Wales was apparently “bullshit neo-confederate propaganda,” but she’d eventually shown it for Evie. Only when she was out of literally every other Clint Eastwood movie for their wife to devour, though.

See, Evie liked Clint Eastwood. She really, really liked Clint Eastwood. A whole damn lot. Something about an old, grizzled, hardass soldier really did it for the girl. Go figure. Hurlish and Sara had teased her relentlessly about that, cracking jokes about how every girl with daddy issues ended up wanting to marry their own dad, but that had died out pretty quickly. Evie had only looked at them blankly and reminded them that her father had died before she’d turned three. She was serious, too.

“I just don’t get it,” Hurlish rumbled, waving at the movie. “Blondie knows Tuco’s gun is unloaded. He’s not planning to kill the guy, and he’s got Angel Eye’s number. Why bother with all this shit?”

By Hurlish’s reckoning, they were about a thousand hours into the five minute duel at the end of the movie. There was a whole lot of slow walking, squinting, and serious scowling on screen, but not much else. Hurlish could admit that it’d been pretty fun to watch the first time around, especially with the weird music to listen to, but on her fifth runthrough, she was just getting impatient.

“Shh!” Evie hushed, eyes locked on the illusory screen. “Just watch.”

“I’ve watched it five damn times,” Hurlish groused. “It still doesn’t make sense. Just shoot the guy, for the gods’ sake. Would save everyone a whole lot of time.”

“It is about building tension!” Evie hissed. “They are measuring one another’s skills, estimating their opponent’s abilities. Blondie may have the faster gunhand than Angel Eyes, but there is no point in taking unnecessary risks. He knows Tuco is too anxious, that he will certainly draw first, and it is in that moment that Blondie can strike.”

“He also coulda just shot him in the back a long time ago.”

“You have watched nearly as many of these films as I have, clearly. There is a code of conduct between outlaws, one which dictates what is and is not honorable for their duels.”

Hurlish rolled her eyes. “Sure. I just don’t think Blondie’s the type to give a shit about that. Dude’s literally an outlaw. He should just kill ‘em and get it over with.”

Evie shook her head, refusing to look away. The music was starting to swell, the final shot drawing close. “It is an excellent display of his character, Hurlish. Sergio Leone is not just depicting a literal sequence of events; he is doing what is called a ‘character study.’”

From within the rumpled-hair nest she’d made between Hurlish’s breasts, Sara lifted herself up to stare at Evie.

“Really? Character study? Where’d you learn that term?”

“Since you have comparatively little interest in filmography, I have spoken extensively with your father about the works of Clint Eastwood, Sergio Leone, and Ennio Morricone. It is a fascinating topic.”

Sara groaned laboriously. “Oh, god. Please tell me you don’t have an opinion on the difference between a film and a movie.”

“But there is one, no? While a movie is simple, trite entertainment, a film is an artistic approach to the craft of-”

Sara groaned louder. “Goddammit, Dad. Look what you did to my fuckin’ wife.”

Hurlish chuckled, despite herself. There was no actual frustration here. It was just a funny conversation, the kind that they’d only ever managed to have regularly for the few short months between kicking the Sporaton’s asses and getting caught up in the Imperial civil war.

Because she was a loving wife, Hurlish quieted herself for the big finale. Evie vibrated with excitement as the shot rang out, a lone bullet knocking Angel Eyes to the ground, Tuco’s empty gun going click-click-click as he mashed the trigger over and over again. In Hurlish’s opinion, it was a whole lot of shlock. She hadn’t been in a gunfight herself, but she’d shot plenty of guns. She couldn’t ever imagine real people, especially those that didn’t have Classes, ending up in a duel like that. Just no point to it. Better to get the drop on someone while they were sleeping and stick a knife through their eye.

But Evie ate that kind of shit up, so she didn’t gripe. Watching the same old thing was more than worth it to see the little sadist so distracted from all her usual concerns.

A few minutes later, Sara’s illusion faded with the end of the movie. Tahn made a little murmuring noise in his crib, probably in reaction to the darkening of the room, but he didn’t do anything further. With all three moms around, he’d gotten more than his fair share of playtime that evening.

Hurlish wrapped her arms around Sara, squeezing her tight. The bigger of her two wives was always nice to squish up against. Really, with the type of life she led, Sara probably shouldn’t have so much plush softness left. Amarat’s Blessings were probably to blame for that, Hurlish figured. She was glad. Having one rail-thin wife she could toss around like nothing, and another who was all soft curves? That was downright blissful. Hurlish had gotten damn lucky.

“So,” she said, a thought occurring to her, “Amarat still being stingy? No luck on getting your next Level?”

Sara shook her head even as she melted into Hurlish’s hug. “No, doesn’t look like it. Either my natural Leveling pace has slowed way the hell down, or I’ve got to start doing the shit an actual Champion of Amarat is supposed to be doing.”

“Mm,” Hurlish rumbled. “Don’t know about that. You’ve been fighting a lot, sure, but you’ve also been chatting away with Borek and all his fancy types, too. That’s gotta count as being diplomatic, right?”

“Maybe?” Sara shrugged. “My last new Level came right after I made the deal with the Adjutant. Maybe Amarat isn’t interested in rewarding me for bothering with small fry like a single General. If I really wanted to focus on that, it’d probably be best for me to be back in Tulian, dealing with parliament and diplomatic envoys.”

“You still greet them via crystal when they arrive,” Evie said. “Though you cannot intuit quite so much as you could in person, I imagine that your negotiation of trade deals and the like is worth consideration. Historical records do indicate that a Champion’s advancement slows as they grow more accustomed to their new world. The simplest explanation seems to be that you are reaching this point for yourself.”

“But would it be dropping off this hard?” Sara asked. “I mean, it’s been, what, two months without a new Level? That’s pretty crazy.”

Hurlish snorted. “Yeah. Boo-hoo. Going two whole months without a new Advancement. Can’t imagine the pain.”

Hurlish herself had been considered an unprecedented prodigy in her village for getting her second Advancement before turning eighteen. By the time she’d met Sara, ten years later, she’d clawed her way up to her sixth Advancement, making her inarguably the best blacksmith in all of Hagos. Well, the best for her age, anyway. There were a few old timers who could probably put her to shame, but most of those had been retired by the time she was in business. The other sorts that could have given her a run for her money had moved up north, to bigger cities. Hurlish had shown up at just the right time to make a name for herself.

Wonder if Amarat had anything to do with that? Hurlish considered. Her life before meeting Sara had been one hell of a string of coincidences. Just the fact that she was able to march across all of Tulian in the midst of an unending typhoon was a miracle in itself. That she’d fallen ass-first into a smithing gig when she got to Hagos, only to have the old owner of the shop die out from under her? Awfully convenient, if you were a goddess trying to pave the way for an upcoming Champion.

She didn’t think too hard about that, however. Wondering about how the gods fucked with your future was a quick way to go crazy, and that was doubly true when you were as tangled up in their affairs as she was, being married to Sara and all.

At least I know Amarat didn’t want me to end up going with her, Hurlish thought smugly, remembering Amillya’s angry accusation. Feels good to know I chose something for myself, if only the once.

“You got any other plans for getting out of your slump?” Hurlish asked. “You’re gonna want to be as powerful as you can be for whatever’s coming.”

“A single day’s experimentation can’t be expected to bear fruit.” Evie stretched her arms out, yawning as the fur on her tail puffed out. “General Borek has officially tasked us with the detection and persecution of Tenth God cultists within captured Imperial territory. We will have many more opportunities to pursue Amarat’s enemies.”

“Still don’t like it,” Sara huffed. “Doing Amarat’s dirty work like that. So long as they fuck off, I don’t give a shit about the cult. Starting fights with them is just gonna stir up problems that Tulian doesn’t need.”

“I really don’t think they were planning to leave us alone,” Hurlish said. “They started shit in the first place, remember? Whatever the Tenth God’s got on his agenda, it’s shit you’re already going up against. They’re all for the old way of things, collars and kings and all of that crap. You’d have ended up fighting them anyway.”

“Maybe. But I still don’t like getting told what to do.”

“Such is the toil of mortals in a world ruled by divinities, dear,” Evie said. “At least you know what your rewards will be. Many others, even those far more faithful, do not.”

Sara grumbled something under her breath, probably some kind of blasphemy, but changed the topic. “You two just want me Leveling up again so you can get boosted, too.”

“I wouldn’t mind it,” Hurlish admitted frankly. “But I’m pretty sure I’m more limited by time and materials than I am by Advancements. With enough patience and one of your blueprints, I can make just about everything I want to. Only thing I’m limited on is some of the big industrial stuff you’ve told me about. And I don’t think there’s any kind of Skill I’m gonna get that’ll let me whip up a machine you’ve barely ever heard of, much less know how it works.”

Sara leaned her head back, making her eyelashes flutter seductively. “Oh, but won’t you please try for me? I’m sure you can get a Skill that lets you hammer out high-pressure industrial turbine blades if you just focus on it hard enough.”

“And these turbine blades… they’re used for what, exactly?”

“Uh.” Sara blinked. “Power plants that… generate electricity? I think? Or maybe for planes? And I think also ship engines, if I’m remembering something Dad said correctly. I mean, I know they’re definitely used in plane engines at the very least, but I can’t remember what else they’re used for. A lot of stuff, probably.”

Hurlish snorted. “Sure. Sounds like a nice, clear goal. I’ll get on it in no time.”

“Glad to hear it.”

Hurlish used the leverage of her hug to tug Sara up into her a touch, making Evie mewl her frustration as she uncurled to chase after Sara’s lap. After scooting back a foot or so on the bed, Evie dropped her head back atop Sara’s thighs, flipping so her head was turned the other way, into her stomach. She tried to hide it, but Hurlish caught the way her nostrils flared, breathing deeply of the scent between Sara’s legs.

I’ll let her have it, Hurlish decided. They’d already fucked that night, which meant they were technically supposed to be just relaxing, but Evie was Evie. Hurlish would bet half her forge that the girl hadn’t even realized what she’d done. It was instinctive.

Gonna have to get more strict with them soon, though. Hurlish reached out to pet Evie’s hair. They’re getting bad about it again.

This was the first time in days that Hurlish had actually managed to get her wives to sit down and relax. No fucking, no taking care of Tahn, no discussing strategy. Just cozied up on the bed, enjoying each other’s presence. She’d been pretty patient, knowing how much they had on their plates, but there were limits. Hurlish knew damn well that, if she let them, Sara and Evie would end up working themselves to death. Even this little get-together had been a compromise. They had some meeting or whatever bright and early in the morning, which meant they had to wake up in about five hours or so.

Hurlish didn’t know when the last time was that her wives had gotten a full night’s sleep. She’d probably have been horrified to learn. Even with the Imperial Army camped in a city as they slowly pacified its populace, Sara was in constant communication with Tulian, endlessly debating with parliament and her advisors on their ever-evolving legal code. And that was only when she wasn’t picking and prodding at a dozen different Imperial political plots, making a mental map of their schemes like some demented, yayo-addled spider.

Meanwhile, when Evie wasn’t helping Sara with all that, the Feline was constantly out on patrols, inspecting the Powdered Lead’s various units to ensure none of them were slacking on their training. With the Imperial Army getting their own guns, and soon their own artillery, Evie had made it her mission to ensure that the Powdered Lead maintained a relative advantage. If they couldn’t out-tech their so-called “allies,” she was going to make damn sure they out-skilled them. Her philosophy was simple. The Tulian Army as a whole, and the Powdered Lead in particular, had one advantage that the Imperial Army lacked: inexperience. With the Empire embroiled in its long war, almost all of its career soldiers had long-since gained Classes based on the old style of warfare. Spears, bows, and armor. Evie? Evie wanted to build a new army. One built from the ground-up with blackpowder troops.

Hurlish sighed, giving them both a squeeze. She respected them. Loved ‘em to bits. But honestly, sometimes she just wanted to spend some normal, relaxing time with her fuckin’ wives. She’d known when she’d marched off to follow a Champion that shit was gonna be complicated and busy. She’d made concessions to that fact practically every day she’d been with Sara. But there were limits to those concessions, too.

What do I do about it, though? Hurlish wondered. She had a few ideas. Fucking, mainly. Neither of them could resist a good pounding, even if Sara liked to pretend otherwise. But that wasn’t really relaxing. With the way they fucked, it was downright exhausting. So she needed a way to force Sara and Evie out on a proper date. Eat some food none of them made, spend some money without worrying about how it’d affect their budget, that kind of shit.

Hurlish reached down and grabbed Evie by the back of her shirt, one arm still wrapped around Sara, then rolled onto her side, taking her wives with her. They squeaked and squawked in protest, trying to squirm out of her grip, but she ignored them. With a twist of her wrist, she flipped Sara around to shove her face-first into her tits, then squeezed Evie in behind her, wrapping them both up in one oversized hug. They kept trying to say something, so she kept ignoring them.

I got a few ideas, she decided, yawning. Her wives stopped wriggling as they slowly accepted that she wasn’t going to let them go. ‘Course, it’ll probably have to start with fucking, but what good idea doesn’t?

--------------------------------------------

Ketch

--------------------------------------------

Ketch blinked her inner eyelids hard, trying her best to clear the gunk from her sight. The riverways of the Empire were a mess. She’d swam in some Tulian rivers every now and then, when she had to, and she’d never much enjoyed them. These were even worse. Compared to the coastal tributaries she’d already hated, the jungle rivers were disgustingly murky, hard to breathe in, and eternally filled with floating crap.

And the worst of it all was just how much there was to get in her way. The stringy tendrils of long river plants choked the riverways, dense as wheat stalks. Even swimming as near the surface as she dared, Ketch constantly had to shove her way through, sometimes ending up so tangled she began to wonder if it would have been better to walk straight through the forest. It wasn’t, of course, at least when she was traveling downstream, but still. She missed the waters of her home.

And they miss you, Sellie’s voice rasped, ticklish razor blades grazing the base of Ketch’s skull. It made her giggle.

I miss you too, she thought back. I’m sure Sara will let me go home soon.

She does not let you do anything, Sellie huffed. That is only my role. You are my guppy. Not hers.

Ketch giggled again. She could feel how her girlfriend meant it. She could even feel the way her own thoughts were briefly drowned out by Sellie’s, the force of her declaration choking Ketch’s in a pleasant, mindless buzz.

Good guppy, Sellie’s ancient voice purred as she retreated. Ketch was left on her own, but only just. The vastness of Sellie’s soul was always waiting at the edge of her awareness, ready to swoop down and consume her at a moment’s notice. Ketch’s mind was nothing more than a candle in a thunderstorm, sheltered by gently cupped palms. It was comforting.

And distracting. Even swimming through the frustrating underwater forest, Ketch felt her kicking legs try to squeeze together, seeking friction. She would have to visit Sara soon. After this mission, she hoped. Spending too much time wrapped in Sellie’s coddling embrace was wonderful, but often lacking in that final step towards a more… primal kind of satisfaction. Sara could fix that for her.

Ketch shifted her burden off her shoulder, bringing the bag around to the front. It was hard, swimming while transporting the bulky waxed-leather container. Still better than carrying it on the surface, considering how heavy it was, but not easy. Sometimes she wished her Class had done more for her body than make it harder to spot. Disappearing into shadows could only do so much when you struggled to carry a quarter of your own body weight.

Guided by senses she could not define, Ketch followed the swirling current leftward when the river split. She knew that the other route would eventually curve back around, merging into the first, but that would be past her destination. She didn’t know how she knew that. She just did. Since falling under Sara’s sway, there were a lot of things like that in her life. Sellie had told her a good guppy didn’t question blessings, so she’d stopped worrying about it.

Wooden poles sprouted from the mud up ahead, a forest of pillars that spoke to an above-water dock. Beneath it, she sensed, was another azarketi. They were napping. Rain pattered the surface of the water, a downpour that had turned the current swift, so they’d used a bit of braided plantlife to tie themselves to the post in order to not drift away.

Ketch slowed until she was drifting in the water, hesitating. Over the months, it had become harder and harder to remember just how much other people could see. It was nighttime up above, and the rain was fairly heavy. Lightning flashed occasionally, lighting the river for brief touches, but other than that, it was as close to pitch black as could be.

Ketch, of course, could see as if it was noon. It had been the better part of a year since she’d last seen genuine darkness. Her eyes had stopped caring about light around the time Sara had dragged her to her tenth Advancement. It was almost hard to remember what it was like, to be so blind.

She decided to play it safe. She poked her face above the water, trying to let as little of herself show as possible.

The village roads were all but abandoned. The midnight rain had turned into a proper storm, dousing whatever lights may have normally been burning between buildings. Ketch could see some warm lantern light leaking between the loose boards of homes, the signs of a village bored by weather that hadn’t let them spend the waking hours outside.

Taking one last glance at the sleeping azarketi, Ketch made her choice. She slipped up to the shoreline, emerging onto the muddy bank. Several crocodiles were piled atop one another nearby, resting their heads together. As had every jungle creature Ketch had encountered thus far, they first began to hungrily approach, then paused, catching a whiff of the Witch upon her. Almost as one mass, they turned around and scrabbled in the mud, fleeing in a great rush of splashing tails and strange croaking sounds.

Ketch wasn’t awfully concerned about the noise. Thunder rumbled and water splashed, easily hiding the commotion. She kept a careful grip on her heavy bag as she padded her way up the muddy bank, heading for the building that matched the description Sara had provided. She couldn’t properly feel the mud beneath her bare feet, because she didn’t sink into it enough to make tracks. That would’ve made her too easy to follow. It was a Skill she wished she’d had when she’d been in the snowy reaches of Sporatos.

Despite the storm, the village’s only tavern was alight with laughter and song. Its storm shutters were shut, protecting the occupants from the wailing wind outside, but enough light leaked through the sodden timbers that Ketch could have pressed herself to the wall and peered inside. She didn’t, however. Instead she circled around to the back, finding a tightly-latched door to the stone-walled cellar below. Thick boards were barred by a slab of iron, kept in place by a heavy lock.

Sellie, Ketch whispered in her mind, touching the dagger that gave her the connection to her girlfriend. I need to get in here.

Of course, guppy.

Ketch loved what Sara’s presence had turned her into. The Advancements she’d gotten so impossibly soon, catapulting her to heights that she could, now that she’d matured a touch, admit she never would have reached on her own.

The problem was, Ketch had always wanted to be a rogue. Maybe not a Rogue proper, as Sara had described it, but roguish, at the very least. The type of girl that could live on her own, providing for herself, working odd jobs for shady people. Ignoring the fact that she was Sellie’s familiar, of course, because she couldn’t— and wouldn’t— change that. Instead, thanks to the rapid Advancements she’d received, she’d just become… hidden. That was what her Class was, now. “Hidden, Cherished Familiar.” She could hide, and she could hide exceptionally, unfathomably well, but that was it. She didn’t know how to use a dagger, or pick locks, or do any of the roguish things she’d heard about in her childhood stories. She could just watch, silently, from the shadows.

So Sellie, the wonderful girlfriend that she was, had started helping her bridge the gap.

Ketch pressed her finger to the lock’s opening, feeling the cool metal for the brief moment before her entire hand went starkly numb. The bone within her finger began to retract. She could see the tendons and ligaments tear as it retreated, distending the skin along the back of her palm as it was slotted into a pinched lump never meant to hold it. The flesh of her finger began to fall limp, unsupported, but she stopped that by shoving it forward into the lock.

The blue scales of her skin scraped and tore away, piling up on the sharp edges of the lock. The flesh audibly ripped, but it didn’t hurt, of course. Her body was Sellie’s, and Sellie wouldn’t let her feel pain.

Her mangled finger stopped at the bottom of the lock. She watched with a detached interest as the last knuckle bone of her finger, still visible atop her hand, slid forward, breaking into a dozen squirming worms. They slipped into the mangled flesh within the lock, bracing against one another to expand her skin into every nook and cranny. They were followed shortly after by the second and third knuckle bone, each shattered and swirling and pressing outward, until her finger had filled the lock to bursting.

With a quick twist of her wrist, the mechanism unlocked. Silently, of course. There was too much bloody flesh engorging the mechanisms for any metal to strike metal.

Ketch pulled her finger out, tearing it off at the base with a wet shlick-pop. She put the stump into her mouth, catching the blood as her finger began to regrow.

Do not leave your skin behind, Sellie whispered. Rituals of blood and bone are so very troublesome, and I would not have you be vulnerable to any who happen across these remnants.

Obediently, Ketch pulled her finger from her mouth so she could seal her lips around the edges of the bloody lock. Sucking hard, she felt the flesh– which had begun to rot with unnatural speed– spatter against her tongue and throat, pulled from the lock in thick gobbets. She sucked for a minute or so, then stuck her tongue inside, cleaning out what she could reach, and then finally stood.

Good guppy.

Ketch shivered as she swallowed. She didn’t know what her own rotten, mangled finger should have tasted like, but Sellie only let her know its taste as her father’s deliciously grilled fish. She’d been a good guppy, after all. No sense letting a good guppy taste something gross.

Ketch lifted the cellar door without a creak, slipping inside. There was the barest light within, bouncing off the same shelves that muffled careful whispers.

They should have put a guard at the door, Ketch thought disapprovingly. She knew more about sneaking into places than preventing others from doing the same, but that much was obvious. She’d have to point it out to them.

Stepping around several shelves packed tightly with tavern goods, Ketch finally caught a glimpse of the room’s occupants. Three women and a man, each of them hunched over a crate that they were using for a table. A single candle lit the papers they’d laid out there, which seemed to be a mixture of unpracticed handwriting and amateurish maps of a city Ketch didn’t recognize.

“It would be stupid to risk it now!” One of the women insisted. She was a human, one who had made the odd choice of cleanly shaving all the hair off her head. “This is the closest one of the True Adjutant’s armies have been in decades! Even if they don’t end up heading south, why not wait and see? What would we lose?”

The man slapped his hand down on a paper. “An opportunity! They have no reason to come help us. Ta-Lerevian holds nothing of value for them. We must take matters into our own hands!”

“Hands that we will be using to slit our own throats?” The first woman scoffed. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

The woman to the right of the bald one stabbed a finger toward her companion. “If he is being ridiculous, then you are being a coward! Even if they liberate our home, do you think General Borek would honor the desires of those who never even tried to fight for what is right?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Ketch announced loudly.

All four figures whirled towards where she’d spoken, but Ketch was already in the shadows across the room.

Well, she was also where she’d spoken from– partially. But mostly she was in the shadows across the room. Unless that ended up being a bad place to be, in which case she would have been in her original spot the entire time. Really, where she was going to be and where she had been depended on how things went down. It wasn’t decided yet.

Ketch… didn’t really understand what she’d become. Thankfully, she didn’t need to.

“Who said that?” The last woman cried, whipping a table knife from her belt and waving it at the darkness Ketch had spoken from. The others retreated behind her, trusting their safety to her dinky little knife. Ketch supposed that meant she was the most dangerous of them. “Show yourself! What are you doing here?”

“I’m here to help you,” Ketch said. The woman whirled, trying to search out her voice, but it hadn’t come from any one spot. “I promise it. But I’m also really strong, and you couldn’t hurt me if you tried. So you don’t need to keep the knife up.”

“Bullshit!” The bald woman hissed. “Stab her, Kes!”

“I don’t know where she is!”

“How do you not know where she is? The room’s ten feet wide!”

“Can you see her?”

“I got bad eyes! You know that!”

Ketch shook her head. She could see why Sara had sent her here. Abandoning the shadows, she stepped into the candlelight and dropped the bag between her feet with a loud thump.

All four strangers let out a startled shout, leaping away.

“See?” Ketch said, allowing herself to be seen. “That could have been, like, a knife in your neck or something. It’s not, though. I didn’t hurt anyone.”

“Fuckin’ shit!” The man cried eloquently, reaching for the candle. The flame sputtered as he flung it up before him in a two-handed grip, holding it as if it might ward Ketch off.

“Look,” she said, flipping her empty hands up, turning them back and forth. “See? Nothing here. We’re all safe.”

“Who are you?” The knife-wielding woman spat.

“I’m a messenger from Sara Brown. I was sent here to deliver that bag. Since I’ve already done that, I guess I could leave now, but I’m guessing you’ll want more of an explanation than that.”

They looked at one another. Even if they were amateurs who’d forgotten to guard the cellar door, Ketch had to admit they were showing the right amount of paranoia. They had no reason to trust her.

“If I wanted to turn you in to someone, I obviously could have done that already. Let me show you what’s in the bag,” Ketch suggested. “That’ll prove it’s from Sara Brown.”

A hushed conversation broke out between the four rebels, each of them whispering into one another’s ears as quietly as they could. Ketch politely pretended she couldn’t overhear, but she privately approved of their talk. They were raising the right concerns. They just didn’t have the experience or training to know what to do.

Ketch wanted to be back in Ta-Pet soon, however, and she was getting impatient. Instead of waiting for them to come to their own decision, she opened the bag’s water-tight drawstring herself.

What emerged into the light had knife-lady lunging for Ketch again, crying out in shock. Ketch flitted back easily, disappearing into the room’s shadows with her prize in tow.

Held in her hands was a very peculiar sort of weapon. Smithed by Hurlish herself, it was one of the few designs wholly independent of any Champion-borne origins. Originally intended as an experiment for making a gun for horse riding troops, back when Sara had still been entertaining the idea of purchasing the animals from other countries, it was a short weapon, no more than thirty inches long when it was fully assembled. As it currently was in Ketch’s hand, it measured just under eighteen inches. That’s because it was broken in half.

According to Sara’s dad, a break-action flintlock was something no one had ever made back on Earth. Hurlish had decided to pawn these experimental guns off on these rebels because the short length and easy loading was perfect for assassination work. You could break it in half, stuff it underneath a coat, wait until a target was close, and reach underneath your clothes to ready it. All you needed to do then was whip it out, close the break, cock the hammer, and fire away.

“I knew it!” The knife-lady cried, swinging her weapon blindly in the dark. “I knew she was here to kill us!”

“I’m not,” Ketch said, slipping away from her wild attacks. “Here.”

The gun flew from the darkness, landing on the table with a clatter and spray of papers.

“There’s two more of those guns in that bag. And more importantly, there’s books.”

“Books?” Bald lady asked.

“Shut it!” Knife-lady screamed.

“You shut up!” The man hissed. “Do you want to get us all caught? You think they can’t hear you up there?”

All eyes turned to the room’s roof. The sounds of a raucous tavern filtered through the boards. It wasn’t hard to imagine that the same sounds could make their way back to the room above.

“He’s right,” Ketch said. “If I really wanted to cause problems for you, I could just start shouting. Isn’t that proof enough that I’m on your side?”

“Just put the knife away,” the last woman, the quietest of them all, whispered. “She’s clearly some kind of Warrior. She could have killed us all if she wanted to. Let’s hear what she has to say.”

Ketch absolutely couldn’t have killed them all. Not without ambushing them in their sleep or something. But there was no point in telling them that.

“Fine,” Knife-lady snapped. She turned around and forcefully impaled her knife into the table, leaving it vibrating in place. Crossing her arms, she turned around to face the darkness. “Come out, then. Say you’re really from the Chosen. What do you want?”

“To give you that bag, like I said.” Ketch emerged from the darkness with her hands still raised. “There’s also books in there. According to Sara, they’re more important than the guns.”

The bald woman scowled. “We don’t want any damn Pantheon books. If the gods haven’t already told the Emperor to set things right already, they’d never send a Chosen to do it. Tell the Chosen she should keep her preachy talk to herself.”

That was a reaction that Ketch hadn’t expected. Most Empire-types slobbered over Sara’s status as a Chosen, treating her like the next best thing to a divinity. Which she kind of was, Ketch supposed, if in a very distant second place. Either way, it wasn’t like Imperials to be so dismissive of a Chosen.

“They’re not religious books,” Ketch said. She kicked the bag forward, sliding it towards the twitchy rebels. “Here. Look. Can any of you read?”

“I know my letters,” the quiet woman said. “Give it to me.”

Knife-lady, apparently the brute of this little four-person conspiracy, was the one to cautiously open the oversized sack Ketch had delivered. Slowly, as if sticking her hand into a snake den, she retrieved one of the thin leather-bound texts. The quiet lady accepted it, lips sounding out words as her eyes slowly ground over the boldly-printed title.

“The Brown Book of Gunpowder Insurgency,” she said aloud, only once she’d finished reading. “An Instructional Guide to Revolt Against Entrenched Elites.”

“See?” Ketch said. “Not a religious book.”

The quiet lady flipped open the cover, waving the man with the lantern light over. Everyone except knife-lady crowded around the book, inspecting the first pages. Ketch had skimmed it herself, using Sellie’s knowledge of Kemari to read the foreign lettering. It didn’t start with a fancy preamble like most books. The very first page was a recipe for blackpowder, accompanied by pictographic diagrams of proper mixing procedure and safety warnings. The page next to that was a blueprint for the simplest sort of musket, a matchlock, the kind of gun almost any blacksmith could make with the tools they already had in their forge. The quiet lady tentatively flipped the page, revealing even more designs, this set being explosives. Grenades and larger bombs, as well as a guide for making simple timed fuses.

“There’s twenty of those books in the bag,” Ketch explained. “You should keep one for yourselves, then distribute the others to as many groups as you can. How you decide who to give it to is actually covered in the first chapter. It’s all about the proper organization of resistance cells.”

“How was this made?” The quiet lady whispered. “Spells can only copy words, not images. This book isn’t worth silver, it’s worth gold. Why give us this?”

“Oh, it’s actually pretty cheap,” Ketch said with a shrug. “Books in general are, now. Sara said she’s printed a few thousand of those so far. She’s been secretly giving them out to various groups for a few months now. You’re not the first people I’ve delivered these to. Not by a long shot.”

“But… why?” The quiet lady looked up at Ketch. “This is dangerous. We fight for the True Adjutant, but for how long? How well? These books will be lost, captured, given around. Your enemies will get their hands on them.”

“So?” Ketch did her best to copy Sara’s nonchalance when she’d asked her the same question. “The more people that know how to fight the powerful, the better things will be. They’ll only treat normal people right when they don’t have a choice. That’s what these books are for. Taking away their other options.”

Knife-lady jerked her chin at the gun on the table. “What about that, then? Who does the Chosen want us to kill with those?”

Ketch shrugged. “Whoever you think you should, I guess. She doesn’t really care what you do. All that matters is that the people in charge are scared.”

“We can’t just kill random nobility,” the bald lady insisted. “That would be chaos. There would be reprisals, brutality, and executions.”

“Chapter four,” Ketch said. “It’s about picking appropriate targets for sabotage and assassination. Most every ruler deserves a bullet, but a lot of people don’t realize it. So you’ve got to pick your targets carefully. Kill the ones that everyone already hates, so you get sympathy for your cause. You’re not just running a rebellion. You’re running a popularity contest. You want people to smile when they hear the news you shot someone, not frown.”

“Easier said than done.”

“That’s why Sara gave you a guide.”

Silence fell as the four would-be rebels digested this. Ketch supposed she should have stayed longer. Explained more, helped them make their decisions. But she was running out of things to copy from Sara’s own explanation of the books, and she wanted to make the most of the rain to help her sneak back upstream to Ta-Pet.

So she stepped into the shadows without another word, disappearing into the night. She’d delivered the package. Her job was done. Either they’d make use of it, or they wouldn’t. It wasn’t up to her anymore.

You did well, Sellie whispered. I heard your lovely voice in my own throat. You sounded strong. Confident.

But I’m not, Ketch whispered back. I’m not any of those things.

You will be, guppy, she assured her. You will be. In time.

--------------------------------------------

Chona

--------------------------------------------

“What were you thinking?!” Professor Garen roared, slamming a hand down on his desk. “Your aircraft were attacked by probable agents of a foreign nation, you see your fellow students get killed, and you do not speak a word of it to anyone? Have you lost your mind? Have you any idea how idiotic your behavior was?!”

“Yes, sir,” Chona and Tinvel said together.

Professor Garen shot to his feet so fast that his chair was thrown to the floor.

“Clearly you do not! Did you once, ever, consider the political repercussions of your actions? That what you turned into a week-long aerial brawl may have been instigated by a case of mistaken identity, and now this entire nation is at war with a foreign power because you did not have the good sense to just speak to someone? Gods!” Garen slapped the air, spellcrafted energy slamming the door to his office shut with a boom. “For the sake of the individuals I thought you two were, I pray that nothing awful comes of this! But if it does, I will not shelter you from the consequences!” He laughed harshly. “I could not if I tried, as a matter of fact! I hope you were not relying on my influence to protect you, because the Governess has gone to considerable lengths to limit the informal power I may have otherwise held. If parliament wishes to offer your heads up on silver platters to appease the families of those you killed, I could not stop them if I wished! And at this particular moment, I very much do not!”

Chona swallowed hard. The air in the headmasters’ office had the thickness of a steaming swamp. Professor Brown was sitting beside Garen, looking more formal than she’d ever known the man was capable of. His hands were folded atop his desk, his back straight, his glasses firmly pressed to the bridge of his nose. After asking a few clarification questions during their report, he hadn’t spoken once.

“About parliament, sir,” Tinvel said. Chona stiffened, but didn’t stop him. They’d planned this.

Garen spun. “What about parliament, Tinvel?”

“I spoke with them before coming to report here.”

“You spoke with the Tulian parliament?”

“Yes, sir. We delivered a speech a few hours ago.”

Garen’s fists tightened. “What. Does. That. Mean?”

Tinvel took a deep breath. “I advocated for the formalization of the Tulian Air Force as the third branch of the Republic’s military, alongside the Army and Navy.”

Professor Brown sucked air through his teeth. Professor Garen just stared.

Chona’s eyes flicked over to Tinvel. He was holding his best impression of a soldier’s parade rest, arms locked behind his back, feet shoulder-width apart. If he hadn’t been sweating like a pig roasting over a fire, he would’ve actually seemed confident.

His claim, that he’d given a speech to the Tulian Parliament, was mostly true. But Chona had been the one who’d done most of the talking. They’d written up a long, fancy-sounding speech the day before, planning for Tinvel to leverage his fame as the inventor of the airplane to earn him some podium time before the assembled Parliament. Thankfully, their own ignorance about whether or not that was allowed was mirrored in most of the ministers. There wasn’t a precedent for it, but there wasn’t a law against it, either. They’d wandered around the Peasant’s Theatre for a few hours, searching for a particularly war-hungry minister, and eventually found an exceptionally anti-Sporaton man who willingly ceded his speech time to them. That had created its own stir, with the ministers arguing fiercely over whether or not it was allowed, but their general interest in what Tinvel had to say won out in the end.

When Tinvel had actually gotten down into the pit, however, with all the ministers and civilian spectators staring down at him, he’d barely choked out the first few lines before his voice petered out. Chona had swept up and taken the papers from him, delivering the rest of the speech herself. She’d been terrified too, since she was pretty sure none of what they were doing was allowed, but she’d at least managed to read her lines loud enough for the back rows to hear. Just like they’d planned, she gave a report on the actions of the foreign griffons, spoke of the effectiveness of boiling thermite, including a demonstration of the new spell she’d developed, and subtly hinted at the potential of larger, faster, and more powerful aircraft that were to come— if the aeronautical industry had proper funding. Funding that could “only” come from it being considered an additional branch of the military.

At this news, Professor Garen looked ready to burst. His face was turning red, a vein twitching atop his forehead, and the gritting of his teeth was audible in the heavy silence.

“You want to turn your talents over to violence?” He hissed. “All this work? All that you’ve achieved? The majesty of flight, the beauty of taking to the skies, the joy you’ve told me so much of? You would declare it before all the world to be a… a tool of war?”

“I don’t think I have a choice,” Tinvel said evenly. “The griffons weren’t there for no reason. They had a mission, detailed orders, and they were working to achieve it. And the Sporatons will be back soon. No one’s saying it, but everyone knows it. With the industries this University has helped develop, we could have already been the richest city in a thousand miles. But half the Tulian economy is still turned towards building guns, forts, and ammunition. I was going to end up fighting for Tulian anyway, Professor Garen. Why not make sure I’m part of a force that’s ready for it?”

Garen visibly worked to calm himself, patting down the front of his robes. He leaned forward slightly, speaking lowly.

“And your legacy, Tinvel? Is this how you want to be remembered? Right now, you are the artificer who brought humanity into the skies. If you do this, if you become a commander of war, you will be nothing more than another ironmonger. A merchant of blood and death.”

Chona watched Tinvel carefully. She knew he’d had the same thoughts. He hadn’t spoken it, but she’d seen it in him. He cared about how he’d be remembered. He was so, so proud of what he’d done, and, though she was loath to admit it, rightly so. Professor Brown may have given him the shape of an aerofoil, but Tinvel had built the engine. He’d hooked the controls together. It was his hands that had taken them into the sky.

Tinvel swallowed hard. Doubt flickered across his face, the images of burnt bodies and broken friends dancing behind his pupils.

His expression hardened.

“Yes, sir,” he said. “When the Sporatons came here the first time, I hid behind you. I cowered in the University. I heard people screaming, fighting, dying, and you know what I did?”

“You did not lower yourself to base, animalistic, shameful-”

“I pissed myself, sir.”

Garen’s jaw clicked shut. A person didn’t admit to something like that without having a good reason. No one said a word. Chona could hear her own blood rushing through her ears. The two Professors stared at Tinvel. He met their eyes without wavering. They… respected that. Enough to let him talk, at least for a little while, uninterrupted.

“I don’t know if you noticed at the time, sir,” Tinvel continued, “but I pissed myself. Wet my pants. It smelled awful. Sometimes, it feels like I can still smell it. While other people were fighting to protect their home, to protect one another, I was so scared I lost control of my bladder. Do you know how often I’ve thought of that? How many nights I’ve been kept awake thinking about that? Too many.”

“Tinvel,” Garen said gently. “Days and actions long past do not have to dictate the decisions of the future. You are young. A child, practically. There is no shame in-”

“Do you know how many ‘children’ are in the Tulian Army, sir? More than anyone wants to admit, I’d say. Kids sixteen, fifteen years old, some even younger, because no one can really call them out when they lie about their age. The Governess hates it, tries to stop it, but people don’t listen to her orders, because dammit, we need the numbers. We need everybody. Those ‘children’ fought, sir. And I didn’t.”

Professor Garen glared, jaw tight. His shoulders rose and fell as he took a long breath.

“Chona,” he said, looking at her. “Please. Talk some sense into him. This is madness. He can direct the aircraft from elsewhere. He can remain safe at the University, developing the tools for others to use. Can’t you see that?”

Chona felt something twitch deep within herself. She… liked the idea of Tinvel staying away from the battle. Safe. Of him not having to fight. Chona herself, she’d never liked fighting. Not for the sake of it, at least. Something like the coming war, where soldiers were pitted against each other by little more than random chance? There was nothing worthwhile there. A personal vendetta was one thing, defending her home another. She could enjoy those. She couldn’t enjoy a war. But if she’d thought Tinvel would change his mind, she would have been working to convince him a long time ago.

He wouldn’t. He thought he had the chance to stop something like what had happened

“I can see it,” she stated. “But I can also see that he’s a better pilot than anyone else. And I can see that pretty soon, we’re going to need good pilots. Good mages, too. If Parliament approves an Air Force, I’ll join with him.”

Professor Garen glanced between them. His anger was dissolving. She had never seen him look so… defeated. Like he was already mourning their deaths. Not their literal deaths, maybe, but something else. The death of their innocence, she supposed.

As if mine didn’t die ten years ago.

“Tinvel.”

Professor Brown’s voice cut through the air like a gunshot. It had an absolute authority to it, one she’d never expected from the cherubic old professor. It was the first time he’d spoken since they finished their initial report.

Somehow, Tinvel straightened even further. He respected Professor Brown deeply. “Yes, sir?”

“If you’re going to be a soldier, a commander, there are responsibilities you can’t avoid. One of them is simple. If you want me to not fight the creation of your Air Force with everything I have, you’ll do it the moment you leave this office.”

Tinvel nodded firmly. Like a kid playing at being a soldier. That would change soon, Chona expected.

“Yes, sir?”

“Hunes and Docks died under your command. That means they were your responsibility. If you’re going to accept that, you have to accept every part of it. When you leave this room, you’re going to walk straight to Hunes’s house. You’re going to knock on the door, look her parents in the eyes, and tell them she died. You’re going to tell them how she died. What your role was in it. You’re going to listen to everything they have to say to you, every scream, sob, and insult, and you’re going to agree with everything they say. Then you’re going to apologize for it. After that? You’re going to go visit Docks’ family. And you’re going to do it all again.”

Professor Brown never unfolded his hands as he spoke. He latched onto Tinvel, every syllable sinking barbs deeper into his flesh. Into her own, too, truth be told. She’d been there, too. She’d helped make the decision to go help Affe, rather than land and try to heal Hunes and Docks straight away. She’d have her own part to play in this.

“I’ve never fought in a war,” Professor Brown said. “I’ve never even been in a fight. But I’ve seen what it does to people. I’ve met veterans who came back from war more broken than you can ever imagine. I’ve had friends and colleagues that couldn’t bear what they’d done, and they let it eat at them until there was nothing left. They killed themselves over that guilt. You think that watching two of your friends die means you’re ready to be a soldier, Tinvel? You’re not. No one is. If you do this, you’re never going to be the same again. You’ll probably be worse for it. Not better.”

Chona watched him closely. This was his decision to make, ultimately. Their professors were right. Even if Parliament ended up creating an Air Force, Tinvel didn’t have to be in charge. He was an inventor, an innovator. He could build the weapons that others used.

Tinvel was silent for a time. He was absorbing what Professor Brown had said. Thinking it over, considering it carefully. She respected that.

He shook his head.

“I’ve killed people. Burned them alive. I watched them die. Sir…” he licked his lips. “If it was going to happen, it already has.”

Professor Brown sighed. He looked away, out his office window, at the city beyond. Garen’s knuckles were white, his fingernails digging into the skin of his palm. Neither looked at them.

Tinvel turned to leave. Chona glanced at the two older men, just for a moment. Then she followed after him.

Visit and read more novel to help us update chapter quickly. Thank you so much!